MGH, Morlocks and Maybe Murder
by AllForLenya
Summary: This is my second entry and corresponds to my first story; it is not totally necessary to read that one first, though, but chronologically speaking, this one is second. Remy and Logan stumble upon the mysterious death of a Morlock. When others pop up, it starts to look like a conspiracy. Meanwhile, Jean and Emma look into MGH and why it is so popular among today's mutants.
1. Chapter 1

The cold snap that had been going on for the last few days seemed nearly ready to dissipate, but Logan knew that there would be at least another day or so. Maybe it would back off for a few days, enough to melt the snow, and then as December came into view, New York would get the winter it usually did. As a Canadian, Logan didn't mind the snow, and even if he didn't, he wouldn't gripe about it as others did. There was much more to complain about than the weather.

There were wars. And hate. Corruption and terrorism. But Logan wasn't going to complain about those things either. Because they were things that always were and always would be. And if there was one thing he learned from nearly two centuries on this earth, it was to keep on keepin' on, because it was really the only thing he could do. He had found, though, that keepin' on didn't have to mean movin' on, and he was proud to say that he had finally settled on something worth sticking around for. Charles Xavier, a frail man in a wheelchair, with a mind that had to be seen, and then still was unbelievable had shown him that. Had given him a purpose. And had treated him as a person and not a soldier, not a weapon. That courtesy, Xavier's kindness, was the reason why Logan would stay. Not to mention, he kind of liked doing his thing with a lot of breathing room.

He always drove with the window cracked, much to the dismay of any passengers he might have, because he didn't like the window stopping his senses from the outside world. His senses, not to toot his own horn, were a bit like Xavier's mind – incredible. And, he probably could have still smelt what he had with the windows up, but there was a freedom in riding with the window cracked, the wind whistling in, and Logan enjoyed whatever freedoms he could get. Especially in the day and age when freedom was a word that had a definition, but to a mutant, sometimes, little else.

That unmistakable smell caught deeper in his nostrils, like a red beacon glowing, giving away its position, and he pulled over to the side of the road, cutting in front of a car that had the same idea. The harried business man flipped him the bird and Logan thought about flipping him a claw or three, but didn't. See, he _could_ be tame, at times.

Following his nose as only he could, he disappeared into a back alley, where no one else would have noticed the smell because of the dirty garbage containers. A clever mask, perhaps? Or maybe just a coincidence. Logan wasn't sure if he believed in them, but wasn't foolish enough to dismiss them completely. Partially behind one of those containers was a pair of huge legs that led to a huge body with four arms and mottled red skin, peppered with both small and large moles.

"Why'd you have to die on my friggin' shift, stinky?" Logan muttered to himself, giving the air a deeper sniff to see what else he could determine. Because the body was literally frozen to the ground, the smell was fainter than it would have been to him. A body found ripe in the dead of summer, and well, Logan could smell the name right off him.

He walked around the body in a wide enough circle not to step on it; thankfully, due to the alleyway and the garbage bins, the snow drifted around the body, but didn't cover too much of it. And he sniffed again; carefully, his olfactory receptors sifted through what he had taken in. Recently dead. Someone who hadn't lived well in life. And a faint, chemical scent that smelled almost like sweat and adrenaline. This, more than anything, peaked his interests, putting his interest level now at a one. Speaking again, this time as if his boss might be listening, he said, "All right, bub, let's see what you got."

Mutant communities have existed from about the same time that baseline communities have, but no one seemed to notice or care unless something bad happened. That was the case until the MCRT was formed. The Mutant Community Research Team was added as part of the deal between Charles Xavier, Nick Fury and Tony Stark when the latter two commandeered Charles's family property which contained The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning, The Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters and a supposed to be clandestine underground training facility known as The Danger Room.

Charles said he would offer his land, and allow for The Avengers Academy as well as The S.H.I.E.L.D. compound to be built there, and he would give The Danger Room technology to S.H.I.E.L.D., so long as he could still have the schools under his name and also a hand in what mutants would be sent to The Academy. He also asked that S.H.I.E.L.D. take the initiative to learn about what kinds of mutants exist out there and to set up a program that was more legitimate than the use of his brain amplifier, known as Cerebro. Fury and Stark considered the proposition, and to them, Xavier asked for very little in comparison to what they were getting in return – a collection of some of the best mutants available to them. These mutants would be trained in mutant ethics and power and ability management before they entered The Academy, which would save Stark and Fury both time and money. And also public outrage from having untrained, potentially dangerous mutants working for the partially government funded organization. They agreed to this 'legitimate mutant research team' and passed it off to Charles to handle it himself.

Charles, in turn, dropped it right on the lap of his then head X-Man, Scott Summers, who was, in Stark's and Fury's estimate, not nearly old enough to lead a baseball team let alone a team of mutants. But, they had washed their hands of it, and would not renege on their deal. Any X-Man would now be an Avenger, and would go through Academy training like anyone else.

Scott, who had been training with Xavier for ten years, since he was twelve, when his optic blast powers first manifested, surprised everyone and finished the Academy requirements in only a year (usually it took two to four). So, young or not, Scott, with his average height, thin build and average appearance was more than he seemed. He looked at his newest recruits, roughly the same age as he was, and after naming the new team the MCRT, handed the entire program to the LSU graduate with a sociology degree – Remy LeBeau.

At twenty two, Remy was an arrogant, athletic asshole who was a newlywed, fluent in more than three languages and had a penchant for feeling sorry for anything underprivileged. Handsome and a natural charmer, thus making him well-liked, he seemed the perfect candidate to jump into uncharted waters. No one knew, except Charles, where these mutant communities were, and no one had ever visited them. And one by one, Remy went into previously unvisited areas, where only Charles's mind might go – and where his body could not. Sewers, mountains, the deep woods, abandoned buildings, and even an established small town, or two.

And six years later, slightly less arrogant and now divorced, Remy was still at it. He had made countless censuses, wrote report after report detailing their community formations and ideologies, taught many to read and write, and occasionally fought with those who did not want him there.


	2. Chapter 2

The Biomedical and Biological Research Center was not exactly the place Dr. Emma Frost had wanted to spend her days these past few weeks. She always thought she would leave with some incurable disease and at the very least usually did leave with a treacherous headache from the incessant whirring of expensive instrumentation.

Or perhaps it was Dr. Jean Grey's fault. Who today, was inappropriately playing Billy Joel's _Easy Money_. It was inappropriate, of course, because Emma did not listen to him and thus, thought it was in bad taste. But then, in Emma's opinion, Jean had terrible taste in everything – except men.

She was wearing a drab navy blue turtleneck and gray slacks complete with sensible pumps and a lab jacket that had to be fitted to her petite frame. Her shoulder length red hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and her makeup was muted, almost non-existent. And yet, she managed to look pretty anyways.

The two women, who would probably never get along, had been forced to team up, when one of Emma's interests collided with Jean's assigned project. They both were working on a way to understand the Mutant Growth Hormone, or MGH, Jean biologically speaking, and Emma, psychologically. Because using it was illegal, it was very difficult to obtain samples, and thus, they had very little biological data to work with. However, they had better luck obtaining more qualitative data in regards to accounts made by those who were arrested after using it. So, Emma wondered, why couldn't they meet in her office instead of here?

"I read the information you provided on hormones," Emma stated, without even a 'good morning'. "It was boring and very much over my head."

Jean glanced up from her notes. Today, the esteemed psychologist was dressed in a deep red dress that stopped before her knees, her usual patterned-type nylons better suited for a dance club and a pair of possibly three or four inch black spike heels with an ankle strap. Her bottle blonde hair was blown out and given a bit of curl, and her makeup finished the sexed-up ensemble, with her pale blue eyes outlined in way too much eyeliner. But then, much as Jean might critique the outfit, the makeup, etc., she was always taken aback by Emma's ability to wear such things and feel confident. And well, she certainly was beautiful.

Responding now to what Emma had said, realizing Emma basically had asked her why she had provided so much useless science stuff and what exactly were the main points to be taken from it. That was the benefit of both of them being psychic, though Emma was much stronger than Jean was. In fact the only psychic stronger that Jean was aware of was Charles himself.

"I think it's important that we both have access to everything the other does. I don't suppose I would understand all of your psychological jargon, either." She was kind, and did not say 'bullshit', but Emma could imply it if she wanted to.

Emma batted her eyes, and smiled. "Relax, Peaches. I'm not going to turn in our report with only my name on it."

Jean was used to the nickname and the sexual overtones it implied by now, but she would never like it. She wouldn't have liked it even if Scott had called her that. She continued, "The main point to take from the information I've provided is that dissimilar to the human growth hormone, which is found naturally in the pituitary glands, the mutant growth hormone is much less specific in where it is found, and there is also less specificity in where and what it binds to – receptor speaking. In fact, much like the word 'mutant' implies, there is evidence to suggest that MGH actually mutates to fit a certain receptor, depending on what is available to it. Almost like a virus."

"So, the MGH would mutate to, what – fit – into whatever body it was injected in?" Emma didn't like to play keep-up with Jean's science talk, but was smart enough to know it was for the best she tried to understand.

And Jean, though she could take pleasure in making the other woman feel stupid, she didn't. In fact – Emma would never admit it aloud – Jean was a rather good tutor. "In a manner of speaking, yes. If I injected the MGH isolated from a mutant with powers vastly different from mine, the binding sites on that particular form of MGH might not be able to find a capable receptor and thus, might reconfigure itself in order to fit."

"But wouldn't that change what the MGH does? If it changed to fit you, so to speak, wouldn't the powers be aligned to your own?"

"We can look at MGH molecules like various sets of key rings. Each ring is structurally the same, and very similar to the structure of the hGH molecule. However, the main difference is the keys it has attached. In hGH there are two different keys that bind to two different receptors. That isn't the case with MGH, which has what appears to be two entire chains of proteins, the keys in our example, that are different in every case studied. More interesting is the fact that when certain samples were reexamined, the protein chain had restructured itself, thus, making its binding site different."

"So, like a key, it has only a certain configuration, made up of this chain of proteins? And that chain usually does not change?"

Jean didn't want to get into a discussion on the make-up of proteins, but, she thought this was important. And interesting. "Well, proteins are made up of amino acids, and each amino acid must be in a certain position to assemble a certain protein. In MGH, these amino acids are reconfiguring themselves, changing positions, most likely."

Emma took that in for a moment, and by Jean's face and tone, could tell that this did not normally happen. But such was the nature of mutants, she supposed. She then asked, "Back to someone taking it: if someone isolated MGH from a specific type of mutant and injected it into say, the exact same type of mutant, what would be the point then?" They were now entering territory Emma could understand.

"Most of this is theoretical, but amplification of a mutant power seems the most likely. Like the synergistic effect of drugs. Take two that enhance the other and get the results you want faster and stronger."

"Now that, to me, makes sense. And is something a lot of mutants might be interested in."


	3. Chapter 3

Scott had received word less than an hour ago that Logan was on his way to his usual haunt, where he would do what he did best and scare some no-good drug dealing kids into giving up their sources. Scott had told him to make sure he did everything by protocol standards if it came to that, and then ended the call with a sigh. Logan was always stuck on some conspiracy, usually involving a large number of individuals with government or anti-mutant connections. He was positive that these n'er do well teenagers who sold MGH to mutants were hired grunts of The Purifiers, an anti-mutant group with nasty violent tendencies similar to the Ku Klux Klan.

Scott wasn't sure if he believed it yet, because unlike some of the people who worked for him; Logan, Remy, and also his girlfriend, Dr. Jean Grey, he liked facts and not instinct or emotions to clog his rational thinking. But, much as he and Logan may always butt heads, he could not deny that Logan was one of his best – maybe one of _the_ best agents currently employed by S.H.I.E.L.D. Sure, he did his own thing and didn't always follow the rules, but he had seen and done more than the average bear could ever hope to see or do.

His phone rang again, and whatever he was going to write down on his memo pad escaped him. Seeing it was Logan, he sighed. "You know," he said as he answered, "I need an occasional update, not one every five damn minutes."

"The Cajun in yet?" Logan asked, ignoring his boss. He did that a lot.

"Am I his secretary?" Scott asked rhetorically. "Call him."

"I tried his desk just now," Logan said. "He didn't answer."

"Try his cell. Leave a message," Scott said, irritated. "Voice mail has been around for quite some time now. Even you should know how to use it by now." Logan was notorious for not wanting to work new technology; he hated computers. He apparently liked to use his cell phone though, even though it was way behind the newest models Tony had sent them to use.

Even as he was scolding him, Scott poked his head out of his office that was located above the bullpen. He saw Remy approaching his desk, and while on his desk phone, sent Remy a text with his cell that said, "Visit me, a-sap," Scott figured Remy wouldn't care if he presumed he was in trouble.

He watched as Remy checked his phone, looked up, and then made his way up the stairs. Scott handed him the phone as Remy entered his office and mouthed 'Logan'.

"What do you want?" Remy asked into the phone.

"Meet me down in MD 1, pronto." Logan was never one for manners or pleasantries, which was why Remy didn't bother with them at the moment.

"Um, sure, let me just ignore everything else to do you a favor," Remy said, sarcastically.

"This is something you'll wanna see, trust me."

Remy couldn't help but make the much older man angry whenever he got the chance – especially if he wasn't in striking distance. "Can you be a little more vague, please? Just in case someone is listening in?"

It did the trick, because Logan was easy to piss off. In a snarl, he said, "That shit happens, Cajun. You're just too damn young to know." Then, out with it, he said, "Got a dead Morlock here."

Remy sobered quickly, and asked, "How do you know it's a Morlock?"

"He's ugly as shit."

The chance of finding a portal teleporter around was slim to none as all of the ones registered in The Academy were just starting out and were not authorized to use their power for any other reason other than training purposes. And the only line-of-sight teleporter Remy knew was Kurt and it would be a cold day in hell before he showed up before seven in the morning. So, it appeared driving was his only option. He didn't mind driving usually, but, it wasn't something he felt like doing today. He would have had Clay Quartermain drive, but he was currently at The Triskelion, preparing for a conference that was the first of its kind.

The first MCRT conference, where Clay would be responsible for explaining the duties and preoccupations of an MCRT agent. He would go into lengthy detail explaining exactly what he had been doing for the past four years and he would explain why such work was necessary. Remy did not envy him. Though Remy was technically in charge of the MCRT, he was twenty years younger than Clay and did not have the clout he did and Clay also wasn't a mutant. The line of thinking was if a baseline agent like Clay could be concerned about mutants then anyone could.

Remy had just left The Triskelion yesterday afternoon, after finishing the grueling process of identifying the remains of fifty two serpentine mutants that had suffered untimely deaths at the hands of, as yet unidentified, sect of Purifiers. The emotional toll, plus the cold he had that he couldn't seem to shake, not that he was exactly doing anything to try, made it seem like a chore to drive to MD1 at Logan's beck and call.

Each mutant community is usually given two names, one based on their location in whatever city or state they might be in and the other is one that the mutants that live there have come to call themselves. 'Mutant District 1' or MD1, was one of two zones in New York City, and thus, it encompassed about half of The Big Apple. Within the district were four known condemned buildings that mutant communities lived in, and there was also all of the underground to consider, where the Morlocks were. Meaning that Logan would have to be more specific when he said 'meet me in MD1 pronto', but then Remy knew he'd call with exact directions later.

Sure enough he received his coordinates about half way through the drive and saw it was near one of the entrances to the underground, a subway system on 116th street. As soon as he parked his car, he called Logan. "I'm at 116th. Where are you?"

"Couple blocks north. Back of Farinelli's Pizza."

"Okay, be there shortly." He ended the call and began the walk in the icy cold, thankful he had a warm coat on and several layers. Due to the kinetic energy he had running through his body at all times, he felt warm to the touch, but reacted to temperatures as if they were about ten degrees less than everyone else. He gauged the temp today at negative five.

Logan was leaning against the corner of the building smoking a cigar and eating a slice of pizza when Remy arrived. Remy raised an eyebrow at Logan's choices. "Isn't it a little early to be eating pizza?" He didn't also ask if it was a little gross to be eating at a death scene, but he wanted to.

Logan shrugged, "It's good pizza. Body's this way. And, like I said, he's an ugly one."

Remy muffled a series of coughs into the crook of his elbow, and replied, "I usually don't find dead bodies attractive."

"You're still sick?" Logan asked him and he wasn't exactly nice about it, but that didn't mean he didn't care. A regular tough guy.

"Yeah, well, I'm still waiting for my healing factor to kick in," Remy answered sardonically. Logan had told him once, when Remy was still a rookie that he acted as if he had a healing factor – meaning reckless. And Logan would know, of course, since he had one of the fastest, most effective, healing factors known. Remy would be happy at this point with a normal immune system, which he was becoming more and more certain he did not have.

Logan seemed to know what he was thinking. With his own dry tone, he said, "It's called DayQuil and going to bed once in a while."

"I believe it's your fault I'm out here right now. Let's see the body, huh?"

Remy walked around the back of the dumpster and was hit with a wall of emotion he couldn't begin to decipher as he looked down and saw… Red. His large, ugly, mottled red corpse with four arms and moles was unmistakable. He shook his head and in a barely audible voice, he cursed, "Goddamn stupid moron."

"You know him?" Logan asked him, knowing the answer. Many said Remy was hard to read, but Logan had never seen that. Remy tried to be hard to read, but all one had to do was pay attention. He knew most were too preoccupied with Remy's looks to bother with his feelings.

"Yeah. Jesus," Remy said, taking a few steps back from the body. The worst part of being an MCRT agent, in Remy's opinion, was dealing with the dead. Because it was almost always someone he was acquainted with. "Name's Red. I just saw him three days ago."

Logan raised a bushy brow. "You need a minute?" He knew Remy well; the kid was sensitive and usually blamed himself for shit that couldn't possibly have to do with him.

After a pause that could have been the 'minute' he needed, Remy replied. "No. Goddamn it." He ran his hands through his notoriously rumpled chocolate brown hair and sighed. "Let's just call this in."

"I did right after I called you. Should be here any minute."

Remy crouched down next to Red, careful not to touch him, but wanting to take a closer look at what he suspected. Five days ago, Red had been itching his skin hard enough to break the skin, and three days ago the scabs had begun to form. But looking at Red's corpse now, he saw more open wounds than scabs which told Remy at least one thing – Red had not stopped taking MGH after Remy had told him to.

He stood up and again pushed his hands through his hair. "I went through their houses, and didn't find anything. He must have kept some though." He was mostly talking to himself, frustrated that he didn't know Red had lied to him. People did not get away with lying to him, as an empath he had a way of knowing, and he prided himself in it. But, somehow Red had.

"Nothing anyone can do about it now," Logan said. "You at least gave a damn to look."

Much as Remy wanted to tell Logan where to put it, he knew what Logan was getting at. Red could make his own choices. Choices had consequences. Red's consequence was death. What Red hadn't cared about though, was those consequences affected more than just Red.

The forensic team arrived then, and took over the scene, getting ready to transport the body to the nearest morgue, where an autopsy would be performed by a S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor.


	4. Chapter 4

Amplification of mutant powers. How many times had Emma sat in session with some kid who was having trouble dealing with his or her set of mutant powers? She had certainly lost count. It was natural to have coping problems if suddenly one woke up to find they could blast ultraviolet radiation from their eyes or could read the minds of those around them. They were scared, wanted to be normal, and hoped they wouldn't hurt anyone or themselves. What was becoming something she heard more often, though, was the idea that whatever ability they had wasn't good enough. Wasn't strong enough. And that, frankly, was something to be wary of. Especially now that MGH was becoming more and more prevalent in the streets.

To be honest, Emma had become interested in psychology for a very similar reason. Her brother Christian had taken his own life after a long bout with drug use, eating disorders and trying to hide from what he was; which was gay. Once he admitted everything, it was too late for him, as his diagnosis as HIV positive was too much for him to bear. Emma had come home from college for Christmas vacation to a confession she hadn't needed to hear, for she knew very well what was in the deepest recesses of his mind. He told her he had wished he was strong, like she was, and would have been able to accept who he was long before. Like she had been able to accept the fact that she was a mutant. It was the last time she would ever see him. She hadn't actually made a vow to him, but in her mind, she had decided to make it her business to let others know that it was okay to be exactly who they were.

Pushing that far, far away, and not looking up to see if Jean's empathy had caught even a glimpse of it, she said, "Amplification of mutant powers is our first category."

Jean did not respond orally, simply wrote it down under the title: _Reasons to use MGH_. Emma had a lot of psychic barriers that kept most people out; but when it was that kind of pain, the pain caused by the death of a loved one, it was as clear as a bell to Jean and her empathy. After all, it had only been twenty years since she was eight years old, screaming at her friend Annie to 'look out' and sobbing her eyes out holding Annie's hand as the life seeped out of her. A part of her would always be inside Jean.

Emma continued, interrupting Jean from Annie and nightmares and the deep loss she might feel forever. "It will be easiest to gather this type of data first. The reasoning behind why mutants and baselines use it. Then we can delve into what actually happens when they do. In fact, maybe by the time we release this stuff to the public, people will actually respond well to it, and allow for funding to do further testing."

"Do you think it will be any different than the reaction to abusing steroids? I want to hope that the fact that shooting up something to make you able to lift a plane is scarier than breaking a bat with every hit, but no one is doing a thing about people abusing steroids in the MLB."

"Good point, but unfortunately, we will have to wait and see what public response might be."

Changing the subject, Jean said, "I think baselines take MGH for a somewhat similar reason to amplification. The chance to have an ability like super-strength or being psychic would be a huge pull for some."

"Yes, it would. Which makes me wonder how many violent crimes are connected to an MGH experience gone wrong. That would screw with mutant and baseline relations. I doubt we'll ever get to do that study."

"I think Elizabeth would flip if Hank ever brought that up in a funding meeting." Elizabeth Braddock was the funds coordinator for The Avengers, and dealt primarily, it seemed with public relations than what was actually needed within Westchester's S.H.I.E.L.D. compound. And Hank was Dr. Hank McCoy, the head of The Biomedical and Biological Research Center, and had quite extravagant tastes that drove Elizabeth crazy.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: It's been awhile since I've updated, but I promise I haven't abandoned this story! Here's just a little something more for any of you who are following. Reviews are always appreciated!_

Remy had decided he should inform The Green Clan about Red's death and then, because he didn't want to go back to the scene, he took a walk a couple blocks north to 120th, where there was a condemned building that had just recently been taking in residents. Unlike the Morlocks, the mutants that lived aboveground did not try to completely sever their ties with humanity, and thus, often kept their ears to the ground. Maybe one of them would know who might have sold Red his ticket to the other side.

The closest complex of buildings that housed mutant residents was at least twelve blocks in the other direction, and called itself The Left, an obvious anti-comparison to one of the anti-mutant religious groups known as The Right. It was one of the only mutant areas in MD1, or in New York City, for that matter, that was nearly self-sufficient. In fact, some called it Little Genosha, because it was almost like Magneto's fairly new mutant island, Genosha. The Left was made up of mutants who primarily had some skill set that was useful or likeable, and thus, brought in revenue for their building. Many sold art, in the form of paintings, poetry, pottery, jewelry, anything that would sell on the street, but others would contract their skills out, mostly hard labor, to people who didn't mind paying a mutant.

Remy didn't mind spending time in The Left's headquarters, because they were the most 'normal', so to speak, and were very open to assimilating and following societal rules. This new building though, formed less than a year ago, was vastly different than The Left, and needed sometimes more than Remy thought he was capable of providing. They called themselves Charlie's Angels, and of course, copyright infringement was the least of their worries. Remy suspected they chose the name, in part, because of Charles Xavier, but he didn't ask them.

Basically, the Charlie's Angel's headquarters was a halfway house that encouraged prostitution among other things. Possibly selling MGH. No one there would admit to being in charge, though it was more than obvious it was run by a woman named Marjorie. But she let her 'girls' as they were called, even though some were boys, form their own groups and mark their own corners. They looked at their position in the world as laughable; in a world where they were jeered and unwanted, they made a lot of dough by cashing in on the sorry folks who fucked them.

Remy entered without knocking, because clients knocked, and he wasn't one of those, and was met by a woman who had always reminded him of Cruella DeVil from 101Dalmatians. Marjorie, of course. She was tall and thin, and her hair, like the puppies' worst nightmare, was black and white. She was also draped in a long, pale colored, fur coat, but it wasn't removable. Smiling at him, she waggled a long-nailed finger in his face and said, "It's a little early for a call girl, isn't it, De-tec-tive?" It didn't matter how often he had introduced himself as Special Agent LeBeau, she liked the sound of 'detective' better.

He smiled back at her and said, "It all depends on what I'm paying for, now doesn't it?"

"I'd do you for free any day of the week, handsome," she said, unapologetically. "Now come on in. You're just in time for a lesson."

She swiveled her hips naturally as she led him from the doorway into the main room. There were brightly colored towels and blankets hung up over the boarded windows, keeping in as much heat as possible. It had an interesting effect, as the morning sun filtered hazily through the colors and settled on the rooms below. The 'lesson' was exactly as it sounded; and as Marjorie made her way to the front of the makeshift classroom, she tapped a young girl on the head and said, "Cora, angel, this isn't art class. Now get out your book."

Remy hadn't seen Cora before, a girl he placed at somewhere between fourteen and sixteen, and far too young to be in this business. She had black hair and pale, milky skin, with bright blue eyes and rosy red lips. She was like a china doll. The picture in front of her was a stunning array of pale colors, dripping in some spots, but a beautiful image of a sunny park with floating balloons on strings.

She looked up at Remy with a wide grin, odd indeed since Remy was a stranger to her, and said, "Hi! My name's Cora! Do you like my picture?"

Another girl reached over and hit her, and said, "Cora, shut up!"

Remy noticed the area around Cora was wet, especially around her too-long sleeves, and he figured her powers had something to do with generating water, and also that there was at least some lack of control involved. "It's very pretty, Cora," he said, quietly, passing his eyes over the girl who had told her to shut up. Older, not the least bit cute with a rough, perhaps bark-like texture to her skin. It was yellow and pink in color. She had no hair and barely a nose to speak of, more of a slight ridge with deep nostrils.

Marjorie turned around and gave Cora that 'I'm not kidding around' look and said, "Listen to your sister, Cora." Then to Remy, she said, "I take it you don't want to stick around for a lesson on The Lord of the Flies?"

"I put in my time with that book, already, Marjorie. But I would like to talk to you about something else." He would not discuss it in front of her 'girls'.

"Will it involve tying me down, de-tec-tive? Perhaps begging?" she asked brazenly, and Remy noticed Cora's sister seemed uncomfortable. They were obviously very new here. But with Cora's talent, why didn't they go to The Left?

"No, but it might involve handcuffs and the back seat of a car if you don't cooperate," Remy replied, but not rudely.

Marjorie chortled in delight and led him back into the back room, where she had paperwork, just as any other boss might. Sitting behind a desk left behind, motioning that he should sit in the only other chair, she leaned her elbows on the desk and practically purred, "So what is it you need my ears and eyes for, my love?"

By the time he returned to Westchester, it was half past noon. He missed the days when he and Ororo made time for each other for lunch. Now, she would be in a Danger Room session with some of the Academy members, surely making their lives hell. As she liked to say, 'someone a lot worse than me's gonna introduce them to the real world if I don't'. Remy certainly didn't envy her the job, nor did he miss his days as an Academy student. Or a rookie, for that matter, as he neared the corridors where he had spent his first three years as an Avenger.

When he was a little boy, his older brother Henri had a dog named Russ, and Henri had been nice enough to let Russ sleep in Remy's room most of the time. Russ would climb up on Remy's bed, all one hundred and ten pounds of him, and let Remy hold on to his ear. Russ died when Remy was only eight and Henri was fifteen. Henri had taken it pretty hard and they never got another dog afterwards. But Remy had always wanted one. Unfortunately, with his hours, having a dog was impossible. Seeing Trust, the secretary Ashley's golden Labrador, thump her tail at his arrival made him smile, especially after what he had just seen.

"Hey good girl," he said crouching down to her level so he could pet her.

She made a little happy whine and rolled unto her back, exposing her belly to him, so he might scratch it. He indulged her and she responded with a happy bark. She wasn't allowed to bark. "Ssh, you're going to get us both in trouble," he whispered, now not scratching so vigorously, so she would settle down.

Trust wagged happily, but stopped barking. But Ashley, who was legally blind by baseline standards, had developed her other senses well, and had heard her dog – and Remy – anyways. She came out of the copier room and asked, "What's the matter Trust? Did Remy forget your treat today?" There was a glass container on her desk filled with dog treats next to a sign that said 'Please feed the dog' written sloppily with a paw print to make it seem that Trust had written it herself.

It really didn't matter if Remy was quiet or not, because Ashley would have known he was there anyways. Remy sort of wished she wouldn't have, because after the death of most of the serpentine community less than a week ago – her people – he had spent his time avoiding talking to her.

She made her way to her desk and sat down, before asking, "Were you ever going to tell me what happened?"

Ashley was short and thin, with pale milky skin and visible green veins. She had short cropped green hair and many piercings and a couple of tattoos. Her eyes were yellow and cloudy. "Ashley," he started, not knowing what he might say, and then settled for, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asked, "I doubt you're a secret Purifier."

He coughed and replied, "No, but I should have said something. They were your family."

She shook her head, and somehow found his hand with hers and gave it a squeeze. "They were my relatives. I was a member of their community. Clara and Trust are my family." Clara was her girlfriend, a student at The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. "And this place, and everyone here, is my community now."

He smiled and figured she knew. Opening the container on her desk, he pulled out a treat and gave it to Trust. As he headed for the corridor, Ashley called out, "Oh, and Remy, get some rest. Even I can see you look like crap."

"Thanks, Ashley."


	6. Chapter 6

_A./N. Another short section, sorry about that! As always, reviews are welcome and greatly appreciated! _

Emma had a client to see and Jean had some tests to run, so the two women parted ways with the promise to meet 'same time, same place' tomorrow. Neither was really looking forward to it, but at least the topic itself held both of their interests. Jean rolled her chair over to the Ken-A-Vision T-19241C Comparison Microscope that was fitted with a 5 Megapixel Microscope Camera with Advanced Panasis Software DK5.1P to allow images to be photographed and saved onto the connected computer.

As well as the mostly qualitative and psychological study of MGH, Jean was involved in at least three other long-term studies that, time permitting, she jumped between each of them. This particular one was one of secondary mutations, something her boss, Hank McCoy, was nearly an expert of – considering he had undergone one himself not too long ago.

His hypothesis was that a lot of mutants, maybe close to half of them, underwent some kind of secondary mutation, but no one was close enough to determining this or not. He believed that not all secondary mutations were on a large scale, as his was, some not even close to a full body physical transformation. In fact, he went on to hypothesize that some mutations might be just the slightest change, like a reduction in metabolism, or a thickening of the skin.

Jean wasn't sure if she believed this; not sure she believed that there was any real point in studying something so seemingly inconsequential as thickening skin. After all, all bodies underwent change, because of puberty, growth and age. Maybe such a change in a mutant was just as non-eventful. But it wasn't her job to question her boss, nor to insert a feeling without first gathering facts. It was something she was still learning. But Hank trusted her knowledge and he believed in her, and that was something she did not take lightly.

On one of the trays, there was an unremarkable thin brown hair. On the other tray was a slightly thicker, coarser and three-toned hair. It appeared to be a feline hair in a visual comparison, but it was technically still human, molecularly speaking. She switched those slides with two new ones, labeled 15HA03 and 15HO03, both slides referring to hairs extracted from the head of Student #15, A standing for 'August' when the student enrolled at the Institute and O, standing for 'October', when the second strands were extracted. An interested student had to sign a waiver saying they were volunteering to be a part of this ongoing study before their body could be picked at with a fine tooth comb. Hank knew who they were, but Jean did not. All she saw of these willing students were enlarged pieces of some part of their bodies – hair, skin, nails, blood, etc.

She wrote down her observations into the standard laboratory notebook used in their labs, including the reference numbers for where the pictures were saved, and then switched slides to examine different strands of hair. Same observations; she could do this without thinking much, and so she continued the rote task of switching slides, examining them and writing what she saw as her mind traveled to other areas.

Foreigner was crooning _Cold As Ice_ in the background, and it made her think of Scott, because he liked to tap along to this song on the steering wheel. A smile played at the corners of her mouth as she thought of a time they had rolled the windows down and sang off-key without a care in the world. She had just passed her Analytical Chemistry exam and he had taken her out to de-stress. Then she laughed, because when she had explained her day to Ororo and Remy, her friends looked at her as if she had grown a second head. They hadn't yet met the Scott she already knew; always saw the fearless-leader, tight-ass persona he wore as comfortably and often as his visor.

Yeah, her man was a bit tightly wound, she knew that, but driving loosened him up. It was a shame that because of his mutant abilities, the ruby quartz visor and glasses he had to wear at all times sometimes hindered his ability to drive at night or in bad weather. That simple thought laid heavy on her mind as she continued her work, until it worked itself into something tangible, something useful.

What if it wasn't always this way? What if it didn't have to be?

Setting Student #15 and Student #27 aside, both had what appeared to be some sort of follicle mutation, and took a moment to take out her contact lenses and slip on a pair of her glasses – this pair was blue and brought out the green in her green-gold eyes nicely. Some women liked diamonds and some liked shoes – Jean liked glasses.

She had also removed her sensible shoes hours ago – in most labs it was forbidden, but Dr. McCoy hardly ever wore shoes and he wasn't a hypocrite. Slipping her feet back into them, she left the microscope room and the laboratory, and went down the hall into a big spare conference room that they were currently renovating to be a filing room. Stacks of boxes were piled on one side and filing cabinets, mostly empty were on another. She took a deep breath, as if she were diving headfirst into a deep sea, and began looking in the closest box. How she wished Hank had let her take charge of the renovation, but he had insisted he do it himself, meaning this room would be a mess for weeks. If not longer.


	7. Chapter 7

The last time Remy had spoken to either of his two rookies was three days ago, when the two of them had embarrassed themselves down in the tunnels by seemingly forgetting nearly everything the Academy had taught them. Red had been alive then, but obviously not well. He wondered what the reaction might be when he informed Kurt and Anna Marie that he was dead.

Kurt Wagner was, as usual, guzzling coffee and chatting more than working. He was wearing a billowy white pirate-esque shirt and pants that resembled silk pajama pants more than slacks. Hung around his scrawny neck was a multi-colored scarf. His partner, Anna Marie Caldecott had straightened her wavy auburn hair, drawing more attention to the shock-white strands that framed her pretty, winter-pale face. If Kurt was a pirate today, than Anna Marie resembled the 'mod' look from the sixties, with her muted makeup and pale floral blouse.

"Hey guys," he said neutrally, without any sense of what had happened just three days ago. And then added, without preamble, "We've got an autopsy to attend."

His voice was hoarse and gravelly, and on top of that he sounded nasal. And yet, he was there, still ordering them around. Kurt seemed annoyed at his presence, which was to be expected. Anna Marie, on the other hand, gave him a sympathetic look and then asked, with a slight laugh and a playful tone, "Who died?"

He coughed, and groaned out, "Red." He knew he didn't need to give any more details; it wasn't too often Kurt or Anna Marie got out from behind their desks or came out from underneath their paperwork. They would clearly remember who Red was.

Anna Marie's big green eyes got larger and her pretty mouth formed an 'o' of surprise. She managed a, "How?"

"That's what a medical examiner is for," Remy replied, but it was obvious he had an idea and just wasn't going to tell them.

Kurt broke the silence between the two Southerners with an annoyed response. "This autopsy is in the city, _ja_?" Because he spoke fluent German, he sometimes used the words for emphasis, probably because he liked the way he sounded when speaking it.

Remy hated it when he phrased statements as questions. "Yes. How fast can you get us there?"

"Me?" Kurt asked, stupidly, knowing exactly what Remy had in mind, but wanting him to actually say so.

Remy instead said, "Or can't you take both of us?" Kurt could take it as insult to his powers if he wanted to, and Remy figured he probably would.

Anna Marie suppressed an urge to roll her eyes or smack both of them upside their heads. Men. Kurt bristled at Remy's nonchalant insult and said, "When I jaunt, it makes people feel a bit nauseous. And you seem pretty sick already… ja?" For some people, teleporting – and phasing – had similar side effects as motion sickness or vertigo. He slightly hoped Remy was one of those unfortunate souls.

Remy did not have a decent comeback, and instead said, "Whenever you're ready."

"Been ready," Kurt replied. To be totally truthful, teleporting through line-of-sight (LOS) teleportation for a distance of nearly thirty-five miles was no cake walk, especially not since he had probably 300 extra pounds of luggage. However, he had no intention of letting Remy know how many jumps he'd have to do, or how difficult it might be. Stupid, probably. Necessary, absolutely.

He hooked a thumb under the collar of his WWII navy pea coat and swung it stylishly over his shoulder. Then, he took hold of Anna Marie by her waist with his prehensile tail, securing her tightly. He then grabbed Remy by the back of his sleeve and jerks him off balance. And with a 'BAMF' they were off.

It had been ten years since Anna Marie had been to an amusement park, but when she landed it was the only thing she could think about. It was like being on about fifteen roller coaster rides at the same time. Kurt put her down gently and she managed to walk about three steps to the side of the building before she held tight and closed her eyes. She willed herself not to throw up.

Kurt wasn't nearly as careful with Remy as he had been with Anna Marie, and let him go as they were exiting the final teleport, sending Remy nearly cascading into the side of the building. Thankfully, for Remy, his reflexes were always spot on, and he managed, just barely, not to fall on his face. With all of Kurt's running starts and leaps, Remy was not surprised to find his head spinning, considering he was not held securely in place as Anna Marie had been, but had been thrown off balance with each new jump through dimensions.

However, his concern was for Anna Marie, who still had her eyes closed and was leaning more on the building than on her own two feet. "You okay?" he asked, coming over to her and touching her lightly on the elbow. If his partner had been a teleporter he would have insisted to be teleported around, if only to get used to the feeling. And if he were a teleporter he would insist on teleporting his partners around, so they got used to the feeling. It didn't surprise him that neither Kurt nor Anna Marie had thought of this.

She slowly opened her eyes, thankful Remy's body was shielding the bright sun from her eyes. Sun on snow when dizzy wasn't a good thing. She nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat, and keeping her dignity intact, she replied, "I'm fine, Swamp Rat, and I'm not gonna ruin your shoes."

She managed a small smile and continued, "Though no promises once we go in there." She meant the morgue, of course.

He nodded, knowing it would be both Anna Marie and Kurt's first time seeing an autopsy. Logan may have taught them the basics when it came to brutality, but this was slightly different. There would be no reassurance that the brutalized was okay in this case, because he wasn't. He was dead.

Because Anna Marie didn't like the unspoken foreboding sense she felt Remy was feeling, she continued with, "What about you, sugar, you gonna make it?"

Was he going to make it – sure. But was he okay? Not really. He felt as if he had played football without a helmet or any padding. His sinuses were pounding. And Red was waiting inside the morgue, the unfortunate final stop for his body.

"Yeah," he lied, mustering up a small, slightly reassuring smile. "I'm good," Then, he focused his attention on his other rookie, because he wasn't born yesterday and could practically hear Kurt saying how exhausted he felt. "Do you need a minute?"

Kurt stood up as straight as he could, and tried to ignore the concern he heard in Remy's voice. Surely, it was the empathy and nothing else. "_Nein_, I'm fine."

Good, Remy thought, everyone was pleasantly lying to everyone else, and trying to save face. He held open the door for them and said mildly, "We're obviously in no hurry here. When we get there, don't be ashamed if it becomes too difficult to handle. Just take a break and come back if you can." Remy would not treat them as he had been treated for his first autopsy. He would be calm, concerned and cautious of their every emotion. And if necessary, he would have them leave. He had done the majority of his tutelage, except for the required 'Logan time', under ex-X-Man Lucas Bishop, a man with a chip on his shoulder, who had treated Remy as if he were the enemy. He was now living in a mutant community not far from here, committed to staying there until every mutant was given equal rights. He was also in anger management for reasons Remy clearly remembered.

The morgue smelled like death and chemicals, as usual, and after showing their badges, Remy and his rookies were led into a conference room, where they were to meet the ME handling the case.

A robust man with rosy, full-of-life cheeks, came over to them and said in a low, rumbly voice, "Agent LeBeau, I presume. We've met once before, I'm Dr. Paul Hodstetter."

Remy smiled and shook the doctor's clean, not yet gloved hand, pretending he was familiar with him. He introduced his two rookies, and then said, "I'd like a copy of everything sent to Dr. Jean Grey in Westchester. Including blood samples, tissue samples and anything else you think is pertinent."

"Of course, Agent," Dr. Hodstetter said jovially. "Just leave me the contact information before you go. Now, the three of you must scrub up, locker rooms are next door to the autopsy room. I'll see you shortly."


	8. Chapter 8

_A.N./ Okay, so I must apologize for the brief chapter and also for the page layout. Jean's notes, on Microsoft Word was scripted to be this cute little flow chart with footnotes for the hypotheses and everything, but it would not format correctly on here, so I had to improvise. So, let your imaginations work here and imagine it neatly organized! And also, as always, thanks everyone for your continued support!_

After nearly three hours of searching through some the boxes on the floor, all Jean found was aggravation. It had become quite obvious to her that Hank had spent very little time here after putting everything in here, out of sight and out of mind. Then again, even if a mess was within Hank's sight, he did very little about it. She hated leaving a thought without an answer and a problem left unsolved, but she wasn't going to be able to find something she wasn't even sure she was looking for in a mess the size of Rhode Island. At least not today.

She returned to the laboratory and sat next to the microscope. And then pulling out a notebook, she jotted a few things down:

_MGH: structurally similar to hGH, thus MAY mimic its properties (may not)_

_'Growth' in MGH could very well be a 'growth factor'_

_Can cause OR disable growth_

_Growth could then refer to change of a mutant ability – or control of that ability_

_Hypothesis A: growth in MGH indicates a potential growth factor, and thus acts as such_

_Hypothesis B: growth in the case of a mutant ability refers to a 'change' of or 'control' of that ability_

_Potential Power/Ability: Develop Or Not Develop_

_If a power develops...either the power is controlled or uncontrolled_

_Controlled, with 'growth', can lead to an altered ability OR power becomes uncontrolled_

_Uncontrolled, with 'growth', can lead to a power that is further uncontrolled OR power becomes controlled_


	9. Chapter 9

She had expected to run from the room either screaming or puking, but was surprised at her control as she watched the autopsy take place before her eyes. Or maybe it was somehow Remy's doing – he looked drawn and strained, leaning against the wall – she wondered if he were exerting a calming sense over the room, at his own expense, of course. Either way, she remained in the room even for the grossest part, the examination of the stomach contents, though she could admit she hid what she hoped was a ladylike gag against her wrist.

When Red was stitched back up, leaving the standard Y incision as a glaring reminder that he hadn't just died peacefully, Dr. Hodstetter explained his findings in brief, though he had been chatting about various medical terminology at length during the process. He said, "Basically, our boy here suffered an allergic reaction to what he injected into himself. The injection sites at his wrist and elbow show he was a pretty regular user and it eventually was in a large enough dose to cause anaphylactic shock, evident by the swelling in his throat and the petechial hemorrhages in his eyes. Furthermore, we see plenty of evidence that this exposure was going on for quite some time, due to the scarred over scratches and the newly formed rash pustules on his neck, head, upper back and arms."

"Can you tell us for certain what it was that he reacted to?" Remy asked.

"Once the tox screens come back, I'll send them to you," he replied, and then added, "Though I know we both already know what it was. This is becoming a real epidemic says a colleague of mine in Chicago. Makes you wonder why people who are smart enough to sell this stuff aren't also smart enough to realize it's too dangerous to do so."

"It all depends on why they want to sell, Doc," Remy answered, knowing that someone like Red, or his entire clan, for that matter, could not have understood the process necessary to extract or manufacture MGH. Meaning they got it from a person who was one of two things: too eager for his own good and assumed the best of what MGH could do, or selling something dangerous very much on purpose.

After thanking the good doctor for his time and intuition and leaving the morgue, the three were very much in their own worlds, but Kurt held a bit tighter to Remy this time as he teleported them all back to Westchester. Remy said to them, "Why don't you call it a day? Just go home and don't worry about writing a report on any of this. I'll take care of it." He was smart enough to know it wasn't just the autopsy that had silenced the two of them, but something much more complex.

Kurt was born incredibly different from the standard human being and Anna Marie's abilities manifested out of something cruel and were not yet in her grasp, control wise. MGH was said to be many things, the most hopeful thought it was a way to fix all that ails a mutant. Remy heard that line all the time in the tunnels and in the MCs. And there was no changing anyone's mind if it was what they wanted to hear. Remy just hoped that Kurt and Anna Marie had heard what they needed to today, and not what they wanted to.

Anna Marie had barely heard Remy dismiss them for the day, but somehow she made it to her car. Remy's empathetic calm could no longer protect her, could no longer keep her in a pleasant state of grace, without feeling. And so, the images of Red's body flashed gruesomely in her mind. The worst of it was the rash, red raw wounds that were a constant reminder to the now dead man that the MGH wasn't working the way he had planned it to. The reminder that he was at the mercy and the limits of his body, and nothing could change that.

She looked at her hands, clutching tightly at the steering wheel. They were pale and slim and had their own reminders of what her limits were. Her nails were painted as usual, but that did little to hide the fact that the skin around each nail was picked and chewed at. As if she were trying to remove the rash of what was.

In frustration she released her hands from the wheel and balled them into fists, pounding just once on the wheel. Then, because no one was around, because no one could see, she covered her face in her hands and began to cry. _A little less Steel and a bit more Magnolia_, she almost heard her mother say, followed by, "_When you're done, don't forget to fix your makeup_."


	10. Chapter 10

Willa pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her bald, spiky head, and tightened the strings as much as she could without hindering her vision. Then, turning to her sister, her life, and her responsibility, she said, "C'mon, Cora, let's go for a walk."

Cora smiled as she always did and nodded enthusiastically. "Okay, Willa! Let me grab my umbrella." The small, pale pink umbrella with ruffles was Cora's prized possession because it had come from their mother.

Looking at it made Willa sick, but she had promised herself when that same woman Cora still loved had kicked them to the curb, that she would never deny her sister anything. "Alright, just hurry up." She always sounded bitter, and a tad too harsh. She would have to work on that, even if Cora never noticed.

Out into the cold, with long fur coats provided by Marjorie, Willa walked slightly faster than her dawdling sister, who spent time skipping and dripping, as usual, twirling the closed umbrella as if she were in a Broadway production. Willa turned and walked backwards for a second, watching to make sure Cora was safe. She had no intention of doing what Marjorie expected of them tonight, or ever, and more importantly, she had no intention of letting anyone touch her sister, either. She would do what she always did, and hit up a local bar and pickpocket whoever was the drunkest.

Marjorie's was just a stop; after all, someday Willa would figure out where she and Cora could go that would be safer for both of them. But she might as well take advantage of the scholastic lessons Marjorie had all her 'girls' learn. Marjorie really was a good person, but she, too, had to live the way she knew best. Coming to the doors of an unsightly dive, one no different than any, she turned to her sister, and handed her a packet of watercolors. "Stay over here, by this bench, okay? And paint the people of New York City something nice while I'm gone."

Cora looked up at her sister and smiled again, "Okay," she said. "I'm going to paint spring."

"Winter has hardly started, Cora. But I'm sure plenty of people will be happy to see some flowers right about now."

By the time Remy pulled into his garage hours later, he was exhausted and not feeling very well.

The lamps were on in the living room and he could hear the thumping of the stereo even before he shut off his car. He imagined it was synchronous with the thumping in his head. He had given Ororo a key probably a year ago now, and slowly his house was changing from the mostly masculine pieces left over after his divorce to a compilation of what Ororo thought spoke to her. He didn't have much use for the elephant shaped teapot, the bamboo partitioning separating his upstairs study into two halves or the rock collection she had put in a metal bowl that somehow represented energy on the kitchen table, but at least it was different than the life he had had before her.

He still wouldn't listen to _When I Said I Do_, though he wasn't a fan of the song before Belle chose it as 'their song', didn't use the blanket she used to and had thrown out all the Christmas decorations they used for their first and only Christmas together. They were all reminders of the biggest failure he had ever had. The slap in the face that said, 'you're not the man your brother is' and worse, 'you're exactly like your father'.

Henri LeBeau, seven years older, had come through life relatively unscathed and unaffected by the world around him. Growing up older, he had been shadowed in height, brains, popularity, athleticism, and – by most standards – attractiveness, ever since Remy was born, and yet, it had really never bothered him. Despite all that, Henri had his younger brother's ever-loving affection and respect, and that had always been enough to ward off the jealousy that would accompany a lesser man. He had gone on to take over half of daddy's business, didn't even need a college degree, had married his high school sweetheart – and kept her – and had two children that respected him and adored him just as much as Remy always had.

Jean-Luc LeBeau, their father, on the other hand, was a train wreck in comparison. And the one thing Remy had never wanted to emulate. He had married Henri's mother after he got her pregnant and then cheated on her with Remy's mother, only to lose both of them, and getting left with the children. It might have said something favorable about him that he was granted custody, but Remy had always interpreted it as he had better assets and also terrible taste in women. And despite his heartbreak, Jean-Luc continued on with women of the same type, diving headfirst in relationships that were an inevitable failure from the beginning.

In Remy's somewhat biased opinion, his father had spent more time trying to keep a woman than his sons' respect. Henri, however; would always give the old man the respect he had earned by just being their dad, but Remy had been more than ready to leave forever the day he turned eighteen. The only barrier was Mattie – the woman who had been hired to watch the boys, and Jean-Luc, was the closest thing to a mother he ever had. If it wasn't for her, Remy figured, his father would be long dead by now. But then, if not for Mattie, Remy also knew he wouldn't be here either. But, despite his hurt that his father hadn't seemed to care about his needs, he would always come home at least once a year and try to keep the peace. It was one of the many things Mattie expected of him.

When he had proposed to Belle, when he was only twenty and still at LSU, he thought they would lead the life Henri had. He would prove to a father who had never asked him to that he could make a marriage work in spite of everything he had learned. He could do it if Henri could, right? After five off-and-on years, starting when they were fifteen, he thought their marriage would have been cake. But he turned out to be very wrong. It was the worst two and a half years of his life so far.

And so, he concluded, there was no way in hell he would ever get down on one knee again. No matter how much he was in love with Ororo. Because he had felt the same way about Belle, too. He had learned not to trust his heart; learned that he was susceptible for falling fast and hard – just like his father. His alternative was to keep up the free-and-easy fuck-buddies façade. Perhaps, she would never fully move in. Perhaps, she would never need more from him than he gave her now.

When he walked into the house and saw her though, he couldn't think of her as his part-time roommate that he had sex with. If he was honest with himself, she was nearly everything to him. She looked like she was dressed for yoga class – white, calf-length leggings and camisole covered with a baggy gray shirt that drooped down on one shoulder. Her silver white hair was in box braids and pulled up on top of her head, as always contrasted beautifully with her _café au lait_ skin. Barefoot, she danced around the living room to Beyoncé. He smiled as she didn't even notice his entrance and hung up his coat and scarf. Just seeing her made him feel slightly better.

Ororo heard him cough; a sound she had been hearing for a week, maybe a week and a half now. But, she had learned by now there was no telling him what to do. He thought her homeopathic remedies were ridiculous and pointless and he didn't take regular medicine either for some reason she found ridiculous. So, she was left to assume he quite enjoyed feeling and sounding miserable. But, she wasn't going to let past arguments mar the time they could have together. With the remote, she turned down the stereo. "Hey, white boy," she said, with a smile, coming over to him and taking over with the removal of his tie.

"How were the kids today?" Remy asked referring to Ororo's group of Academy students. As per Xavier's instructions, most of his 'X-Men', he still used the term, had a group of Academy students assigned to them, and some of them, like Ororo, had the full time job of training them. Remy's group was thankfully mostly led by someone else, Greer Grant-Nelson, though he did have to make himself available to them if they ever needed him. Even Scott Summers was not deemed too important to have a group of his own, though he also had an assistant that did most of the work.

"I've been taking this dance break for probably an hour already," she said.

"That bad, huh?" he answered.

"I'm about to age myself, but it was different when we were in the Academy, that's for sure. For one thing, we had to respect our teachers." She led him to the couch after he had removed his shoes.

"That Storm kid?" he asked, guessing correctly who had made her day Hell.

"Yeah, karma must be. My namesake. You don't know how bad I wanted to drown him in a monsoon, show him what a real storm is."

Remy smiled slightly, showing off the dimple on his left side. Ororo scooted a little closer and took one of his long fingered hands, perfect when he was a wide receiver in high school, in both of hers. "So, a little wolverine told me the two of you stumbled upon a dead Morlock today. Also, he left those dill pickles for us on the counter."

Remy raised an eyebrow, and though his face did not betray him, he wasn't pleased with Logan telling Ororo things like that. Not because she couldn't handle it, but because Remy didn't want to have this conversation. "What else did Logan have to say?"

Those crystal blue eyes never wavered from his face; she knew she would never have the perceptive, people-reading skills Remy had, but she knew him well enough. "Honey, you know as well as I do that Logan tells me these things because he cares but doesn't know how to say so."

"Maybe next time he should just tell you everything so we don't have to get into it."

"Get into it?" Ororo said, and a smile touched her lips. Releasing his hand, she put one hand on each side of his face and before he could pull away she kissed him full on the mouth. And, quickly, before he could say what was on his mind, she said, "One, if I was meant to get sick, I would have got it already. Two, Logan did tell me everything. Three, none of it was your fault. Four, I love you, you stubborn, martyred fool. And five, take your medicine." She got up from the couch then and went to make some tea with honey and lemon.

Willa made a killing; if she gave Marjorie half, it would look like they didn't yet know what they were doing, leaving them enough to perhaps buy two bus tickets. To where, she didn't know yet, but she would figure it out soon. She exited the bar, feeling pretty good about herself, because hardly anyone noticed how she looked either, only to find that Cora was not where she left her.

She panicked for half a second, and then got angry. "Cora?" she whispered fiercely, "Where are you?" She walked over to the bench and noticed the pictures of daisies and tulips. Completed, so maybe her sister had gotten bored. Still, it was no excuse to leave, when Willa had specifically told her to stay there. She could kill her. But that would have been too close to what her mom would have said, or done, even. No, her mother was a coward. A selfish coward, who couldn't deal with the fact that her children were mutants. Taking a deep breath, leaving her mother in the past where she belonged, she began to check the ground for any telltale drips of what direction her sister might have gone.

A few to the right, more to the left, so she went that way, keenly aware of the fact that her little sister was beautiful and innocent and had no radar when it came to stranger-danger or anything of the sort. Her heart beat faster when she thought of it; Cora following some strange man or woman into those white vans with no windows. She stopped and put her hand to her stomach, feeling ill. Cora was her life, her responsibility. Nothing would happen to her, ever.

Just before her sense of responsibility could propel her into further motivation, she heard her sister's laugh. She spun around and ran head on to the source of it. There was Cora sitting next to a girl about Willa's age with pink hair and interesting green eyes. "Who the hell are you?" Willa asked in a voice that clearly meant business.

"What's it to you?" the pink haired sister-stealer said.

"Your smashed in face, that's what," Willa replied. "Cora, get over here, now."

Cora stood up and came over obediently, but said, "Willa, Sara's nice. And she's like us, too."

Willa eyed Sara from top to bottom. Backpack stuffed full and many layers of clothing – clothing that did not look all that worn. Sara was a recent runaway, who had not yet found a permanent place to reside. The wheels in her mind were turning as she asked, "You're a mutant?"

"Yeah, I'm a mutant." Sara said, harshly and angrily, as if trying to force herself to be comfortable with the term.

Willa figured that is what Cora had meant, but continued with, "You got a place you're staying?"

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," Sara replied, but it was an obvious lie, and everyone, but Cora, knew it.

Willa ignored the obvious bluff, and figured out her plan. If she gave Marjorie only a quarter of what she had received tonight, but handed her a new 'girl', she'd look pretty good. And then she and Cora would have an even closer shot of getting to wherever paradise would be. "Yeah, okay," she said to Sara. "How about you come with us? It's not perfect, but it's the life you'll get used to pretty soon." It was Willa's way of saying she knew Sara was new to the street-life.


	11. Chapter 11

Emma glanced at Jean's notes from the previous day, paying special attention to what Jean had called 'Hypothesis B'. It said simply that MGH could control or change a mutant ability. "Has there been previous studies on this?" she asked the red-haired scientist.

"Yes," Jean supplied, "Only problem is, I can't find them in Hank's mess he calls a filing room."

Emma was pretty certain that spending a day in a room filled with files, Jean and her music would make for a horrible day, but research was research and the pros outweighed the cons in this case. "Have you started looking this morning?"

Was Emma actually volunteering her precious time to do some menial task? Jean hid her surprise as she said, "Yeah, I made room for a table and shifted everything to one side of the room except for the things I already searched through last night."

Emma knew the petite little scientist had indeed not moved box after box, much less moved a table manually. Of course she had used her telekinesis. That would be a plus, Emma thought, less chance of breaking a nail if Jean would be doing all the heavy lifting. "Well then, let's go look for evidence to support our other two reasons why someone would take MGH – control and change."

Amplification. Control. And change. It was a valid starting point. Now, hopefully, they would find the proof they needed to make others see it as they did. Emma followed Jean into a room that she would have called complete chaos if not for the small group of open boxes, expertly labeled with several different colored tags. Obviously Jean's doing, because Hank did not even label boxes, let alone singular files.

Pat Benatar's _I Need A Lover_ ended and was replaced by Michael Bolton's _Steel Bars_. And Emma silently steeled herself for the rest of the soul, rock and pop from the eighties – a decade Jean could scarcely remember but had an obsession with. It could be worse, though, right? At least Jean didn't listen to Shania Twain.

"The job that isn't my job," Jean said, rolling her eyes as she saw that Emma looked overwhelmed by the sheer number of files Hank had amassed over his nearly three decade long scientific career. Then, indicating a small notebook paper, she said, "This explains how I've been organizing everything. All of the colored tags are in that little tin. I think you can handle it." Without further instruction, she telekinetically shifted the boxes _a la_ Moses, only slightly, and added, "You start from the left, I'll start from the right."

After a call to Clay Quartermain, listening to how the conference was going, explaining what had happened to Red, and also mentioning his run-in with Marjorie, Remy felt a bit better about things. And yeah, maybe the medicine Ororo had all but forced down his throat last night might have had something to do with that, too.

But mostly, he had thought of something to put his mind on other things than the failed assimilation of Red – another poor soul, of course. He shrugged into his coat, grabbed his keys from the top drawer of his desk and was heading to the parking lot when he ran into Logan. "Where ya headed, kid?"

"The city," Remy said, half-guardedly because he just knew what Logan was going to suggest next.

"Good, I'll come with you," Logan said, and he wasn't asking. "I've got a few things I wanna check out regarding some MGH deals."

Remy just shrugged in agreement. He didn't want to ask the five 'w's when it came to Logan, because it usually turned out to be some half-baked conspiracy. And it wasn't until they were nearly there and Logan didn't request a different location than where Remy was heading, that Remy figured this was some kind of play. "What's going on, Logan?"

"You're losing your skill, Cajun," Logan said, and there was a grimace on his face indicating, in his case, a smile.

"Fuck off," Remy replied, without any heat. "Just tell me why you're suddenly interested in the Charlie's Angels' MC."

"You want me tell you why I knew you were headed there, too?" Logan asked, and he actually sounded a bit excited.

"Whatever floats your boat, old man," Remy said, his eyes behind sunglasses as he scanned for a parking spot relatively close to Marjorie's place.

Logan chose to ignore the younger man's sarcastic tone. "Well, I've got some contacts of my own down in the sewers. Not that I'm all friendly with them like you are. But they tell me what I need to know."

"Uh huh," Remy muttered, hardly listening, as he took a spot only three blocks away. Fucking Big Apple parking. It hardly seemed to matter that it would be the same in any city, because at least in The Big Easy, a long walk from parking spot to destination would be warmer.

Logan was saying, "So, this guy I know tells me that Red knows that brothel lady, and she's his hookup. So, when you didn't come back to the scene yesterday, I figured you went to see not only Red's people but perhaps someone who might know something about the MGH."

Remy stopped listening after 'hookup'. "Wait. What did you say?" The shift from the warm car to the cold streets caused his lungs to rebel and he coughed harshly.

Logan raised his brow at the sound, but said nothing until Remy finished. Then, "That lady that runs Charlie's Angels. She sells MGH to Red and his clan."

"Marjorie doesn't sell MGH," Remy countered, "She sells herself and her girls."

"That's not what my guy says."

"Is he some sort of goddamn soothsayer or something?" Remy asked, annoyed because this could be any scene from six years ago, when Remy was nothing more than a rookie to Logan, and the older man was shoving his hard-earned wisdom at him. "How would he know?"

"He was one of the Green Clan," Logan said, obviously getting what Remy was feeling, but not really caring. He'd lived too long to be bothered by a twenty-something's petulance. Kids.

"Was being the operative word," Remy replied quickly, having an idea who Logan might be referring to now, and pleased his 'skill' seemed to be returning. "His name Dirk by any chance?" Dirk was one of the younger members of The Green Clan, Red's people, one Remy had high hopes for, because he was smart and had dreams of something bigger than living in the sewers. When he had gone down there to talk to Red's people about his death, he was informed that the group, without Red for less than a day, had already split ranks. Remy had not encountered any of the younger members that had hung around with Dirk and believed his ideas.

"Yeah," Logan replied. They were nearing Marjorie's place now. "Dirk said Red had gotten big into the drug in the past few weeks, and he often went surface hopping to see his hookup."

Remy thought on his feet, because they were nearly at the door now. "Well, go bring him in then. He might know a lot more than just who was selling it to Red." He didn't want Logan to come in, all fisticuffs and claws, scaring a bunch of sleepy teenagers who had spent the night having sex for money. He would prefer Logan take a long hike back to 116th street and try to find Dirk. Which, for Logan, would be cake, but Remy hoped it would give him enough time for what he had planned.

Logan wasn't an idiot, and he grimaced slightly at Remy's plan. As per usual, the kid was thinking with his heart and not his head. But Logan couldn't see the harm in letting the kid stay indoors with a bunch of girls for a while, making them feel important and all that shit. While he got some real work done. "You know, maybe Dirk is just saying that to preserve himself. He might just know a lot more than he's willing to tell. How rough d'you think I should be?"

"He's not all that big, Logan. Take it easy on him." If Remy knew what Logan was thinking, it wasn't obvious. It was obvious though; that he was glad Logan was going to leave him with Marjorie.

Jean found a few articles of Hank's that would help her get a new perspective on secondary mutations, and one from another Hank, Dr. Pym, related to one of her other projects; biochemical signals that are released during puberty that might serve as biomarkers to detect mutant ability development.

It was Emma though, amidst the jazzy serenade of Huey Lewis and the News' _100 Years From Now, _that found the first of many helpful articles relating to MGH. It was written by Dr. Moira MacTaggert and was entitled, _Utilizing_ _MGH as a Module for Normalization in Mutant Abilities that are Psychologically Overwhelming_. "Listen to this," Emma said and read aloud the title. "Dr. MacTaggert wrote it."

Dr. Moira MacTaggert was a renowned geneticist, and like Hank McCoy, had a keen interest in the mutant genome. She also happened to be the ex-wife of Charles Xavier and the mother of his two children – whom partly because of their mutation and mostly because Charles had not been able to give them what they needed, never saw him. MacTaggert no longer held it against her ex-husband, though they had divorced because of that, and also because Charles' mind had always been centered on his dreams of equality and little else, but she had made it her mission to do what she could for the two boys, who were now adults and yet, not able to take care of themselves.

All of that knowledge both psychics knew, in fact, Emma had even met them once when she was but a lowly PhD student. It was something she would never forget, to see that such strong abilities had all but gone to waste due to their emotional states. It made it even worse, perhaps, that Emma knew Charles was a good man, and with his X-Men, a good 'father figure'. Apparently, when it was his own flesh and blood, he didn't quite know what to do.

Jean knew considerably less about David Xavier and Kevin MacTaggert, but she didn't want to know any more than she already did either. She asked Emma, "What does it say?"

Emma skimmed the paper quickly and read some of the highlights. "Subjects A and B – I presume the subjects are David and Kevin – were administered 2.5cc into four locations; behind both ears and also subcutaneously into opposite sides of the abdominal area. It looks like the MGH was a 206 amino acid type, and was taken from both boys and saved, it says here, a source before subjects developed their abilities – now that's pre-planning."

Emma glanced up at Jean, and continued, "It looks like Moira had figured out they were going to be mutants before they were. Perhaps Charles told her?"

"Either that, or when both boys were born, they stored their placentas and cord blood. That would certainly have enough biological data to be helpful for Moira later. And though the storage of these things is much more popular now than it was back then, we know Charles and Moira are both progressive."

Emma continued reading, "The subjects were administered the MGH in the morning and at night, and this, coupled with an alternative therapy showed that Subject B – Kevin probably – was able to show a 12.5% increase in control over his abilities."

Jean asked, "What other therapy?" Emma could hear the skepticism in her voice.

"This relates to an earlier paper, where Moira went over the therapy at length. I remember studying it."

Neither woman was going to get into the clichéd physician v. psychologist debate; whether or not medicine alone or medicine with therapy was the answer. Mostly because Emma was solidly for the latter, and Jean wavered between both points, depending on the statistics on the therapy used.

Emma explained the therapy as she remembered it. "It is a series of questions and demands, specifically designed depending on the mutant in question. The proctor of the exam asks the subject to perform a certain task, and each task is graded on how complete the task is done. Control, in this case, relates to doing only what is asked – no more, no less.

"So, if we look at Kevin's exams, each one was fifty questions in length and, according to this, exactly the same, Kevin went from not completing the exam to at least attempting each question."

Jean remained skeptical, but said nothing. She couldn't help but think of the kid, though, his own mother making him go through hoops, as if he were a lab rat and not a child. Yes, she very much respected the woman, and of course, Moira was doing the best for her sons with almost no help from anyone else. In fact, Moira was one of the pioneers in mutant genetics. And yet, there was still a funny taste in her mouth when she thought of it.

Marjorie, with keen senses of her own, had heard her handsome detective and the little furry man arguing outside, and so, when Remy came inside, she blocked his way, like a mother bear, putting a slim arm in front of him and spreading her legs. As if that might stop him if he really wanted in.

"Are you trying to shut me down, De-tec-tive?" Marjorie asked, and right now, she wasn't flirting with him. In fact, her haunches were up and her eyes had taken on a feral gleam.

"No, I'm not, Marjorie," Remy answered her easily, because it was true. Lowering his voice, and moving closer to her, using his easy charm to his best advantage. "But you know as well as I do, that some of these girls just don't belong here."

"Oh honey," she said, still on edge, but loosening up, as per Remy's silent request. "Everyone can be taught to be a call girl. Practice makes perfect, and in this business, we get lots of that."

Remy took her by the wrist and moved it from wall, slightly shifting her, as if they were dancing so she could look at her 'girls' as he was. "How might you train Snow White over there, to be a tough-edged street gal, huh? And her sister is gonna be okay with that?" He of course took advantage of Marjorie's newest girls, Cora and Willa, because they were neither loyal to her, nor were they truly knowledgeable of what was expected of them here.

Marjorie was nearly as tall as Remy was, and she faced him now with none of her earlier anger, in fact, she appeared to be her normal self, cutting her losses easily as any true business woman would. "And what if they refuse to go with you, De-tec-tive? What if they have no interest in that ritzy school?"

"Then you'll keep an eye on them for me, until I can convince them," Remy replied easily.

"Eating for free and sleeping with no one," she intoned with a casual shrug, "You're lucky you're handsome," she answered, planting her hands on his chest and running them half way down his ribs before he took a step back. "And yet, so coy," she added, smiling that smile she had perfected years ago that still had men, despite her mutation, paying the big bucks to get with 'the boss'.

"And just for you," she continued, now in control of her hands, "An added bonus. Willa brought me a new girl last night, and she just doesn't quite stack up, if you know what I mean, babe."

It was a business interaction after all, one where knowledge was worth more than money, and Remy kept her attention for one more moment with, "If you're doing something I don't know about Margie, it isn't wise. And it isn't safe."

"I, of course, don't know what you're referring to, handsome."

She was lying, Remy knew. But that didn't mean she was necessarily dealing. She just knew what he was referring to. "Start charging more for anal or something, _chère_, but please don't start dealing."

She patted his cheek in a maternal way and said, "That's sweet of you to care, De-tec-tive. But don't you waste your worries on me. As always I can take care of myself. Come now, mama Marjorie will show you to your new charges."


End file.
